


All Is Now Harmed

by Purcelli



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Classical Music, M/M, Mom Don't Read This, Morally Gay, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth, morally gray
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-08-05 23:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16376996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purcelli/pseuds/Purcelli
Summary: When a war-weakened Silvermoon is threatened by the presence of political conflict, the Regency must be protected--by any means necessary.





	All Is Now Harmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bach: Cello Suite No.5 i - Prelude

It had not been even vaguely difficult to hunt her down.

The killer was already talented enough in the art of tracking signatures, so her futile attempts to maintain anonymity and retreat to a state of unrecognition at night were easily thwarted. The elf woman was traceable back to a dark, abandoned alley of Murder Row where it seemed that she had made herself a more discreet home. The killer banished his fleeting thought about how fitting that name would be after tonight. Now was not the time for humor.

Standing behind a clothesline burdened with children’s frocks, he watched the woman, studying her every move. She was alone. Tonight, the killer was dressed in a heavy, dark cloak; one that would not betray his cover and show blood if it had to be spilled. But there was truly no reason why the prey even had to bleed.

Steadying himself against the rough stone wall behind him, the killer quieted his breathing and maintained his camouflage. The runic arcane markings that wound around his arms glowed softly in the cover of night. They would be visible and give his position away almost immediately had he not taken the extra precaution to cast a muffling spell over himself. Minutes passed as he remained bathed in shadow, holding his breath unnecessarily, as his illusions would protect him. He had to be sure that there was absolutely no risk of being discovered. He would not strike at the prey until he was certain that there would be no witnesses to the atrocity he was about to commit. 

The target wore a modest black gown tonight that contrasted starkly with what little of her pale skin showed. A dark veil was worn upon her head. She wore it pulled back from her face, but down during the day to symbolize that she was still in mourning for her husband. How ridiculous, the killer thought, her husband’s body had been returned to Silvermoon long ago. It was unusual for an elf to be in public mourning for this long, although she was not without her motives. The attention her widowing granted had served as a good basis to take advantage of the pliable people of the city and fill their heads with lies pointed at the Regency. She had finished with her demonstration almost an hour ago, which tonight included her bold proclamation to the gullible onlookers that Quel’thalas would be reclaimed from the autocrats which held it, she needed only the help of her brothers and sisters in solidarity.

It would be her most effective tirade, but it would be her last. 

The woman perched herself on the edge of an empty grain crate which had probably been left in the alley by the nearby tavern, though the killer was surprised that the commonplaces in the city were even still able to produce food. Most resources were automatically funneled to the war effort, and many Sin’dorei families could barely feed themselves, let alone support a business.

She reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a cigar that reeked of peacebloom from even across the alley. Biting it gently between her teeth, her hand was thrust deeper into her pocket to retrieve what the killer assumed to be a match or some other form of a light. It didn’t matter. She would be dead before she would take a drag.

He sidestepped out of the shadows and raised his arms toward her, muttering the simple yet frighteningly effective cantrip to induce asphyxiation. A useless move was made to defend herself with her hands in front of her throat shortly after she identified that she was being attacked, but the killer’s quick incantation overpowered her easily. First, her fel-eyes flashed with fear as the cigar fell from her mouth and onto the ground. Then a flash of recognition washed over her. This killer was no mere stranger. But she would never have suspected! No one would have. 

The woman was unable to even scream before she began to choke. Quietly, the killer assured, lest someone hear him at work. Falling forward off of the crate and slamming down onto the cobblestones, her wrists made a terrible crunch as she caught herself. The coughing grew increasingly urgent, and she looked up at the killer, moving her lips in an attempt to say something.

_“Why?”_

The sound never left her throat.

The killer kneeled down next to her, pressing one finger to his lips to shush her, and placing his other large hand over her mouth as her arms gave out. She convulsed in his grip, and a tear slipped from her eye as she scrabbled futilely at her murderer’s arms before she went limp. The killer laid her down on the ground, inches from her neglected cigar, and removed his hand from her mouth. A string of bloody saliva followed his palm, which he wiped on the front of her dress in disgust.

Draped against the pavement, the macabre sight of her twisted body was pleasing to the killer. It was only what she deserved after the terror she had spread. The color had yet to drain from her flesh, and she died with her eyes open, the unmistakable look of terror plastered on her face. He brought his hands to her face and gently pushed her eyelids shut to ease her into a darkness that she would now call home.

No one would probably think to look for her until tomorrow, and it would take even longer until anyone would find her corpse in this particular dark, deserted corner of Murder Row.

The killer straightened up to his full height to admire his work from above. It was a clean death, save for the small amount of blood that spilled from her throat in her coughing fit. It was clean enough to look like an accident. To ones as uneducated as the novice city guards left in the city after the decent ones went to war, it would appear that no foul play was even remotely involved.

_Not that anyone would suspect him, anyway._

The killer uttered a quiet, empty prayer to the Sunwell that she might find peace in the next life before he performed the teleportation spell to return him to the Spire.


End file.
